This Is New York
by alwaysflying
Summary: Due to circumstances beyond his control, Mark ends up at a club. So does Roger.


In Manhattan – or at least, in the East Village – it's like there are two worlds. One is that of the daytime, from six in the morning to maybe seven in the evening. It's bright then, an amber sun overlooking everyone and everything. It sees no evil, because it is not until the beginning of the second world – the darker one, the seedier one – that _things _begin to happen.

Things. Things like sex and drugs and rock and roll. Things like booze and muggings and adultery, crimes decreasing in ethics as the darkness wears on. From seven-oh-one on, Manhattan is darker, dustier, and rougher, palms and knuckles hardening in anticipation of a fight, footsteps hurried in an attempt to get inside somewhere before something happens. At the same time, we are all curious; we want to know what this scarier world has to offer. _Try me_. We long to tempt this world, taunt it, cheekily demand a challenge, but do not dare. We know that as brave as our pretenses seem to be, our inner selves cannot stand up against the night terrors of this city.

I will swear to myself that I have nothing to fear in the dark of the East Village, but I know, clear as the slate-gray sky, that this is bullshit. I am terrified. As I descend the stairs of my building, I can feel my pulse quicken, my eyes sharpen, my feet speed up. The dangerous slant of the stairs is no problem for me, but this uncannily flat cement sidewalk is nerve-wreaking for me.

As New Yorkers, the residents of the East Village know what to expect and what to identify as an enormous problem. We know that winds whipping our hair are normal, foosteps behind us are normal, and shoulders brushing past ours – that's normal, too. Causes for concern include muffled noises (particularly when passing alleyways), whispers and murmurs, and footsteps that stop when ours stop. All of these things appear in movies and books, but to worry upon hearing foreign noises is something that can only happen through at least a half-decade of living in New York. People like to think that, sure, they can identify trouble when they hear it, but it is far from the truth. Only a conditioned Manhattanite can react in such a way.

When I walk in the daytime, I stumble, I lurch and I pause. Here in the dark world, the nine-thirty-p.m. world of the East Village, I have no time for this. My steps are hastened and brisk, my eyes focused on my destination, which in this case is far less urgent than my daytime outings. In fact, it is nearly leisurely. True, this errand is purely a work-related function, but I feel rather ridiculous, risking the New York City nighttime to go to a _club_, of all places.

It isn't for entertainment. It isn't to have a good time, fun with friends and a few drinks before retreating back to my apartment. No. This is for my job. I tell myself this with every step I take, wanting to make sure I know how brief and, of course, _necessary _this outing is. I do not want to deliberate, take my time in the club, because even though it is safe and warm, I know that the outside world will grow more dangerous the longer I remain inside. I will not take my time walking there, because I want this done as quickly as possible. I want to be in and out, and then back safely in my apartment.

As a not-quite-professional filmmaker, I am the amateur in my company. I am The Kid, the one who can be sent to buy as many grilled cheese sandwiches as are requested by my superiors, paid back in large bills and forced to embarrass myself as I explain that, no, I cannot give change for a fifty. I don't have twenties or tens in my pockets. I have nickels, quarters, pennies and dimes, and the occasional single dollar. I am paid scarcely anything at all, because my status as The Kid forces me to get very little time of editing and filming done.

Tonight is supposed to change that. I am expected to return with mediocre footage that will leave my bosses shaking their heads, sincerely disappointed, and to offer excuses as to why the quality is so poor. Instead, I have resolved to present to them fantastic footage, featuring my "signature" sharp angles, steady hand, and ever-changing zoom status. Not that any of this is really mine, of course, because I cannot have "signature" material until I have material at all.

I am twenty-two. I have no personal comforts to have waiting for me after a hard day of work. I have no artistic merit. At so young an age, I have already sold out, with no artistic documentary to work on. Even should I have a spare moment to film leisurely, I have nothing to film, because I have only my office's camera to borrow. (It is not as though there is a waiting list for the camera, though, because of the actual film department, I am the only one without a personal camera to be kept at home. They may as well deduct some-odd months' pay from me and _give _me the camera.)

I open the door to the neon-lined club, resigned already to a miserable evening. It is the thirtieth of October, and this is strangely ironic. The inner atmosphere of this club seems a prelude to a nightmare. The crowd is rowdy, more men making up the group than women. The easiest signs used to identify an oncoming riot are here, as well – the barstools are stationed conveniently close to the crowd, and two particularly loud tattooed men are having a spat in the middle of the floor.

Of the entire club, I can see only one individual looking as out-of-place as I. He is young, probably my age if not a year or two younger. His hair is a gorgeous honey-mist auburn, eyes jade green within the ebony pencil lining around them. With a guitar slung around his neck, I know immediately that he is a member of the band I am to be filming. This, of course, only adds to the irony. Surely a band member should not look awkwardly uncomfortable in a club. If anything, the rest of the club should seem out of place. But no, it is clear that this boy – young man, even, despite his adolescent-like appearance and choice of make-up – does not wish to be here. Perhaps he, like me, wishes that he were at home, out of harm's way and far, far away from the jutting elbows and dusty bartop. He, like me, may wish for some space from the eyebrow and lip piercings, desiring a quieter, calmer atmosphere such as that of his own apartment. I can relate.

Even before I hear his voice, I see his fingers wrap themselves around the microphone clipped to his shirt. A high _squeak _resounds throughout the room, and I allow myself to smile. An amateur, then. He seems inexperienced, if nothing else, in the matter of public performance. Perhaps he is nervous. I would be. Or, more likely, he is tired and exasperated. The crowd seems to have no desire to devote an ounce of attention to the evening's performers. I sigh deeply. He seeks attention he is not granted; I, on the other hand, receive accidental slaps on the back from other bar patrons, when all I really want right now is to be ignored.

My camera threatens to slip from my hands, so I rest it in my lap for a moment and take a long sip of my drink. Even at this level of non-intoxication, I cannot for the life of me recall what it is. All that I know is that it is some kind of beer. That much is obvious – beer is the cheapest drink in such a setting, and takes the longest to get me drunk.

My attention is called away once again when I hear another squeak of the microphone. Now, the young man is standing in the center of a raised platform. "Hi," he says weakly, and the word itself manages to quiet down the majority of the club. A pair of girls in the corner near the restroom continues talking. A snippet of their conversation is audible – "And he said he'd sleep with me, only I look like his sister" – before they are silenced as well. Now, it is all camera action. I get to my feet and cross to the middle of the floor. I am ready to film.

"Hi," he repeats. "Um… we're the Well Hungarians. I'm, uh, I'm Roger Davis." He shifts from foot to foot, his posture shrieking, _I'm new_!

Yes. Surely, Roger is new in the land of performance. I capture the way his eyes flit from his feet to the door to my own camera, where the green orbs briefly remain. "So," he continues, "yeah. I'm glad you all are here, 'cause we have… a great show for you tonight." His pause between "have" and "a great show" is accented by his attempt at subtlety in shoving his left hand in his pocket and reading ink marks off of his right hand. I snicker softly, but do not zoom in on the motion, because it would just be obnoxious. Besides, my purpose with this tape is to _sell _the band, not get them laughed at. Well, it isn't like anyone would notice. Except me, of course. Still… I have artistic ethics.

"This first song," Roger says, straightening up and glancing down at his guitar as he adjusts it, "is something I wrote when I was ten. It was, uh, it was my first song, and… well… I didn't know a whole lot about songwriting then. Well… I did know one thing, which was that the words were supposed to rhyme." He pauses for laughter that he does not receive. After an awkward silence, Roger continues, "Well… they do. Rhyme, I mean. For the most part. Anyways, this song is special to me because – "

"Just play the fucking song!" yells some asshole in the audience. I, due to years of conditioning _never _to turn the camera when I turn my head unless I really mean to film it, hardly react. Sure, I wince, but that's it; I flatly refuse to give the jerk the attention he wants. Roger seems oblivious to his comments as well, because he neither turns nor flinches.

In a voice that is only slightly louder than his previous tone, Roger continues, " – because it was the first song I ever wrote, and because it isn't, you know, _polished _like my other songs. It's raw, the way I was feeling at the time, and… yeah. I wanted you to be able to hear that." He shrugs his shoulders dramatically, thus tilting the guitar at an appropriate angle. I feel my pulse unexpectedly quicken, as though the start of Roger's performance means more to me than it even should. I try to calm down, to make my eyes critical rather than deeply engrossed.

"Anyways," says Roger, his pick poised just above the guitar strings, "this is for my girl April. She, ah, she couldn't be here tonight, but I assure you, she in every way deserves this song." With the tiniest smile on his face, Roger plucks out the first few… what are they called? Notes? Chords? I don't know much about music, just that it can be beautiful. And Roger certainly makes it beautiful.

Roger's eyes are sharply focused on the guitar, so unwavering that I might suspect that his eyes are closed altogether. I know better, however; I can see his feet change direction, his stomach suck in a bit, as though he is consciously aware of the physical traits he posesses below eye level. I have a history of noticing such things on my own person, so it is unsurprising that I should notice this on Roger's.

The words are gorgeous, nearly as much so as the singer himself. He is deftly plucking out notes as I watch, listen to the words, and try to tune out the loathsome crowd. I manage to catch the words "_I try to give to you what I can't keep for my own / I offer sacrifices of the things I hold so close_." And he said he wrote this when he was _ten_? I find this impossible to believe. His cheeks are dabbed with pinkish-red as he reaches a certain point in the lyrics "_Love is tender, gentle, it should not be sought through fights / You, to me, are love itself, your lips warm on my forehead every night_."

I understand, suddenly, where this raw passion comes from. A ten-year-old Roger evidently wrote this for his mother. Well, it could be his father or any number of other adult figures, but – no. I am certain that this is for his mother. Equally sure am I of the fact that as he sings this for his girlfriend, he is uncomfortable with the implications, that he loves her as much as he does his own mother. I believe, as, I suspect, does he, that such would be impossible. Lust reigns in his relationship with whatever-her-name-is – April – whereas this, this is love.

When the song is over, I do not cheer, not wanting to pollute my movie with useless noise, but I smile broadly and offer Roger a highly personal thumbs-up. I want him to know I loved it. I want him to know I never heard a song quite like is, that it is beautiful and I loved it and, _god_, he must have been some ten-year-old. I would love to have known him.

"Right," says Roger, still looking into my camera lens. "This next song is… well, it's different. It's kind of new, actually, I wrote it on the F train this morning. It's called _Eternity_, and it's not the kind of thing I usually write. But… but I'm pretty proud of it, actually. So… here goes." He again lays his fingers over the strings, stroking with obviously calloused fingers before striking his pick sharply through the strings. I immediately can tell that this is so different from his previous song in that, well, this isn't about love. It is about something else entirely.

"_Don't tell me what you want to hear / Because you should know I don't care / I'll never tell you what you hear / I'm just me for eternity_." It is a song full of unpolluted rage, anger focused on his target rather than splaying out to other sources of discomfort in his life. I can immediately relate to this song a thousand times more than I could to the previous one, because this is about a fear of becoming different from one's own self, a fear of changing and becoming an entirely new person, one that one does not like half as much. It is a deeply-rooted fear of selling out that Roger possesses, and I blush here in the club, knowing that, if he knew where I work, he would hate me.

As it turns out, the Well Hungarians has short sets, and he promises to be back onstage within four minutes, but that he is taking a break after his second song (_Eternity_). Immediately, I approach the stage, arms swinging loosely at my sides. I do not mean to look offhand and casual. I want to look urban and creative, like a real filmmaker who isn't in it for the money I use for my rent, who is all about the art. In an attempt to achieve this pretense, I lower my glasses to the very tip of my nose, shove up my sleeves, and desperately attempt to scuff my ridiculously overpriced shoes as I make my way over to him.

"Hi," I say. I sound squeaky and pathetic when I want to sound real and honest. I hate it.

Roger grins. "Hey," he says cheerfully. "Like the set?"

I nod vigorously. "It's… it's nothing I've ever seen before," I tell him honestly. "I love your songs. I love how different can be. And… wow. You… must have been some ten-year-old," I tell him, almost laughing but not quite. Something is no longer funny after reviewing it in one's mind repeatedly before vocalizing it. To him, though, it must be funny, because the corners of his lips twitch upward.

"So," he says conversationally, "are you, like… do you make movies? I mean… if you want, film the rest of the show and we could use it to get an agent, and then… well, I guess you'd get some cash, right? Is that how this works?"

I laugh. "Actually, I was speaking to your manager this morning," I admit, and I know that I have now lost all hope of seeming like a real artist. "See, I work at this company that helps bands and writers and actors and stuff get agents, so we make tapes and recordings and stuff. What happens is that we get into contact with managers of people we're interested in – or they contact us – and we send someone out to film it. That's, uh, that's me. And then the tape gets shown to possible agents, plus other venues where you might want to perform, and eventually someone'll buy it. That's how I get paid."

"Must not be too much," Roger muses sympathetically.

With a hesitant grin, I confess, "Really isn't."

He shrugs. "Eh. Starving artists, you know?" With a grin, he grabs a shot glass from the bar and downs it in a single sip. "What's your poison?" he asks me, and I point to the nearly-full beer bottle on the other end of the bar. He grins, and teases, "Classy."

I roll my eyes. "Anyways," I say loudly, trying to change the topic, "Yeah, I really loved your songs. That first one – was that about your mother?"

He smiles hugely. "How could you tell?"

Finding no acceptable response, I merely shrug. "I just knew," I say, and I know I must sound eager and anxious to let him know how much I loved the songs.

"Pretty good," he tells me, sizing me up approvingly. "What did you say your name was?"

"I didn't," I say. "But I'm Mark. Mark Cohen." It's another of those famed Manhattan no-nos, giving one's full name to a stranger. Well… _Cohen _isn't exactly the rarest of names, even when coupled with _Mark_. It is an unextravagant name, the name of a young artist fleeing Westchester in search of something more. That seems to sum me up well enough, I suppose. The problem is that it sums up just about the entire lower part of the city, plus the people living over by Lincoln Center, the "aspiring" artists who've hit it big already.

That will be Roger before it will be me, I know. I am hardly fazed by this. I know my art is largely undesirable, because it is shocking and hopeful – its goal is unrealistic, its rules utterly nonexistent, and its intended audience far too broad and yet too narrow all at the same time. I know, and yet I ignore all the guidelines telling me what "good" art is, because I believe someday I can sucker someone into liking one of my films. At least, I hope.

Roger holds out a hand to me. "I'm Roger," he says, his hand tilted at such an angle that it can surely not be intended to be shaken. I merely let him take my hand, putty in his own, and allow him to perform a mind-blowingly complicated "handshake" that I suspect he perfected in junior high school. He may have the sex appeal of a man in his twenties, but I suspect that Roger's true failing lies in maturity.

"I know," I tell him. "I mean… I'm not a stalker. You said it during your set."

He grins. "I know," he tells me. "No worries. My stalkers are hardly ever male. Or cute."

"No groupies?" I ask sympathetically. It is more wistful than anything. If _I _had groupies, or even an art form allowing for groupies, I wouldn't have to be twenty-two and as of yet utterly inexperienced in matters of the bedsheets. It is immensely depressing.

Roger shakes his head, feigning sadness. "Not a single fangirl," he tells me solemnly. "Or fanboy. I mean, this is New York. Always gotta make sure I'm not being homophobic or anything."

I would love to tell him that I'd be his fanboy (as long as I wouldn't have to remove my underwear to do so), but it would seem a bit forward and probably disturbing. To him, anyway. So I merely say, "Do you have a roommate?"

He seems a little thrown by the sudden change in conversation, but it makes perfect sense to me. If _I _had a roommate, he (or she) would be the first I would have complimenting my footage, telling me to go out there and make a name for myself. If Roger doesn't have one of those, he needs one.

"No, actually," Roger says after a brief pause. "I did. A week ago. But, uh… not now."

I nod, silently prompting him to elaborate, but Roger chooses not to and I decide not to follow up on it. Instead, I say, "Do you… want one?"

He seems unfazed.

Not only unfazed.

Maybe a bit…

happy?

pleased?

I hold my breath. A roommate. A best friend. A partner. Someone to lean on.

Roger shrugs. "Your place or mine?" he asks. The phrase, commonly used (so I've heard) as a prompt to decide a location for sex, means in this instance both everything and nothing it usually stands for.

"How much is your rent?" he asks as a follow-up, and I tell him. He whistles appreciatively. "Mine's, like, twice that," he informs me. "When can I move in?"

"Tonight, if you want," I say. Tonight, I will sleep on the couch, but tonight, I will have my first best friend.

To me, it is an unbelievably fair compromise. No – not fair, but certainly desirable. I smile and ask, "When can you leave?" I am, of course, referring to the dusky, smoky club. Roger checks his watch and shrugs.

"We didn't have an appointment to play here," he tells me. "Just showed up, really. Manager didn't seem to notice, prob'ly 'cause he's drunk off his ass. So basically I can leave whenever."

"Now okay?" I ask. "I mean – would that work?"

Roger shrugs, and his green eyes twinkle wickedly. "Totally," he tells me.

"Let's go."

My mother, a run-of-the-mill suburban woman, would tell me to never talk to strangers, never bring them home, and _certainly _never alternate sleeping in the bed with them. Yet… I don't care. Bringing strangers home is not a common practice where I was born and raised, but this is New York.

I can be scared of the dark, of rapists and muggers, but why be afraid of companionship?

It is a community. It is a friendship. This is New York.

I step out onto the street, inhaling the night air. Sirens blare, lights flicker, and the cold air hits my face.

This is New York.

I hold Roger's hand, feeling so like a child with a fear of something and the need to hold his brother's hand. Roger does not seem to mind, however, and his fingers press against mine with the same force that I press my fingers against his.

This is New York.

I twist my keys into the lock, letting out a loud sigh as I face the insurmountable task of ascending all the stairs laying ahead of me.

This is New York.

I make for the couch, but Roger stops me. "The bed's big enough for two," he tells me.

Yes, this is New York.

I won't be going home for Christmas.


End file.
